


not to me, not if it's you

by MermaidMarie



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Tumblr request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 10:04:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20006521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidMarie/pseuds/MermaidMarie
Summary: Requested.In which Eliot takes care of a sick Quentin.





	not to me, not if it's you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapphic_ambitions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphic_ambitions/gifts).



> Thank you to lavender-riot-grrrl on tumblr for the request <3 I do love some gentle fluff.

Eliot was in the kitchen, drinking his morning coffee very slowly as he sat at the counter. It was his day off—he’d managed to sign up for classes in such a way that Mondays were free, which was truly his saving grace for the week. He could recover from the weekend enough to make it to classes, at least.

Well. Make it to as many classes as he _usually_ made it to. His attendance was not perfect.

He was enjoying the luxury of a slow morning, using a simple charm to keep his coffee at just the right temperature and the steamed milk with just the right amount of foam. Because it was late morning on a Monday, most of the people living at the Cottage were either asleep or out.

It was a nice little routine for Eliot. He appreciated the bits of time he managed to find for himself.

It was somewhat startling when Quentin shambled in, looking like a zombie.

He didn’t seem to register Eliot’s presence, going straight to the fridge and pulling out the orange juice, immediately chugging it straight from the carton.

Eliot watched for a few moments, his head tilting to the side.

“Quentin,” he said casually, “are you aware that we do, in fact, have glasses here?”

Quentin jumped, spilling a bit of juice on his shirt.

“Fuck,” he muttered. He turned to Eliot. “I, uh, I didn’t see you there.”

Eliot nodded sagely. “Hm. Do you make a habit of drinking straight from the carton when you believe you’re alone?”

Quentin shot him a sour look. “No,” he said. “But even if I did, it’s my orange juice, so like. The only people who would care are the people who’ve been _stealing_ my groceries.”

“Glossing over your accusatory tone,” Eliot replied with a wry smile. “Why do you look like you crawled out of your grave?”

“Woke up with a fever,” Quentin said, putting the juice back and closing the fridge.

Eliot looked him over. He did look rather pale. And tired. “Is your solution to hope that orange juice, in all its magical healing properties, will cure you?”

As if to prove the flaws in that logic, Quentin started coughing. “Um. Maybe,” he said when he caught his breath again, his voice scratchy. 

Eliot feigned horror, getting to his feet. “Quentin Middle Name Coldwater. _Honestly._ You should be in _bed,_ with _tea,_ and _soup._ I am shocked by how poorly you’re handling this.”

Quentin blinked. “How poorly _I’m_ handling this? Uh. Okay. I’m, like, the one who’s _sick,_ you get that, right?”

“Yes, and you are being entirely too cavalier about the whole thing.” Eliot walked over, putting his hands on Quentin’s shoulders. “This is unreasonable, Q. You should be complaining theatrically and fainting like a delicate Victorian lady. Where is your lace fan? Where is the wet washcloth meant to be draped over your forehead?”

“We can’t all be you.”

“I’m mildly offended.”

“Yeah, well, I have a headache.”

“Unacceptable. I am officially taking care of you.”

“Uh, I have to get to class—”

“Class?” Eliot said, putting all the shock and disapproval he could into his tone. “You can’t go to _class.”_

“But I—”

“Class is absolutely not worth it.”

“I mean, I, um, I don’t wanna, like, miss anything—”

“What are you going to miss, Q? Professor Sunderland going over the chapter you already read for homework?” Eliot waved his hand dismissively. “Trust me, I’ve missed enough classes to know. You’ll be fine. It’s just one day.”

“But, like, I don’t wanna get behind or anything. I mean, uh, I just—like, I’m not _that_ sick, it’s fine.”

“You have to go back to _bed,_ and you have to _whine.”_ Eliot shook his head. “It’s like you’ve never been sick before. Don’t you know the rules?”

Quentin groaned. “God, El, it’s not that big of a deal.”

Eliot put a hand over his heart. “How dare you. You are _ill,_ you are _dying,_ it is _important_ that I solve this at once.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “I’m not dying. You’re melodramatic.”

“I won’t argue with that, but honestly, Quentin, do you really think you can win this one?”

They stood like that for a few moments, staring at one another. Seeing who would blink first. They were pretty easily matched in stubbornness, but to be fair—

Eliot had the advantage of not being sick.

Quentin rolled his eyes again. He started to turn to the stairs. “Okay, whatever. Yeah, I get it, you win. I’ll, like, lie down or something.”

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Oh, no, Quentin. You think this is _over?”_

Quentin hesitated, glancing back, his brow furrowed. “Um.”

“Darling, little Q. Lucky for you, I happen to have the entire day free.” Eliot gestured to the stairs. “Now, hurry on up, I’ll be there in little bit.”

“I’m locking the door.”

Eliot grinned. “No, you’re not.”

Quentin sighed. “Whatever,” he replied. Eliot caught a slight smile on his face as he walked up the stairs.

Eliot prided himself on his cooking, but really, fevers called for simplicity. That didn’t mean he had to shirk on presentation, though.

He made a cup of mint tea and two pieces of buttered toast, arranging it on a breakfast-in-bed type tray. He also added a glass of water and a glass of orange juice, as well as a small box of tissues. It’s possible he also put a small vase with a single daisy on the tray. _Presentation,_ it was important.

It didn’t take all that long. He carried the tray up carefully. He didn’t really _need_ to be all that careful, because he was telekinetically holding everything in place, but force of habit.

He got to Quentin’s room, placing the tray on the bedside table.

“Now, I’ve charmed the tea so it stays the right temperature, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

He looked over, feeling a jolt of real sympathy. Quentin was huddled in the covers, looking truly, truly miserable.

“Oh, Q,” Eliot said, sitting down at the edge of the bed. He pressed his palm to Quentin’s forehead, feeling the heat.

“You really don’t have to do this,” Quentin mumbled, leaning into Eliot’s hand, seemingly on instinct.

Eliot couldn’t help the warm, earnest smile that grew. “I want to,” he replied.

Quentin looked up at him, frowning a little. “I mean, you, um… You’ve gotta have something better to do.”

Eliot shook his head decisively. “Absolutely not. I am _exactly_ where I should be.”

There was a moment of quiet, and Eliot felt a stab of anxiety that he’d revealed too much, that he should deflect, say something self-aggrandizing, or make a sardonic, selfish comment, but—

“Oh,” Quentin said softly. “Um. Thanks.”

Eliot smiled. Unguarded for the time being, at least. “Of course, Q. Whenever you need it.”

And he meant it.


End file.
